Fairy Tale Fractured
by bsmadi
Summary: John and Sherlock have been kidnapped and placed in a world where fairy tales do come true, in sometimes frightening ways. This is an interactive story, where you, the reader, get to tell me, the writer, where the story should go, who the characters should meet and just about anything your little heart wants to tell me. Any ideas I use will be fully credited.
1. Chapter 1

"Okay. I give up." John Watson's left hand opened and shut in its need to reach to that place near the small of his back where he usually kept his gun. Usually, but of course, not today. "Where are we and why are we here, exactly?" His voice was cut with anger and accusation, he knew, but he couldn't be arsed to care. Waking up on the floor, in a strange place, and strange was a very accurate word, was not how he was meant to be spending the first bank holiday in more than a year during which he didn't actually have to work.

"Frankly, John," The man sitting on the floor next to him stood with far too much grace for someone who had been out cold just minutes ago. "I doubt you're truly going to appreciate my answer." He brushed imaginary dust from his precious Belstaff coat and ran a his hand through his black curls, that somehow still looked nearly perfectly coiffed, in a messy, almost tangled sort of way, before offering a hand up to his companion, friend and blogger.

Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, at least as far as he knew, broke his usual poker-faced mask and allowed one side of his mouth to turn up just a bit. John pretended not to notice because that small smirk meant his friend was having fun, and this was definitely _not_ fun. Oh, it was meant to be fun for _someone_ , no doubt, but not for Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Not today. Not, at least, when it hadn't been his idea. And swear to God, if he found out that this was Sherlock's idea, someone was going find their head in the big bowl of whatever that stuff was on the table. Even if it was porridge. No, especially if it _was_ porridge, because that was all kinds of wrong.

"Sherlock," John walked slowly around the kitchen taking in the gingerbread quality of the decorations and the quaint furnishings that seemed to come directly from a children's book. There was, of course, one table, with three chairs, three bowls of something, three spoons and well, basically there was a three kind of theme happening here. He looked through a door where he saw a sitting room with, as he fully expected, three chairs, in varying sizes, and a staircase, which he was sure led to a loft with three beds, two of which were sure to be uncomfortable. "This would be a very good time to come clean and tell me about the new drug you are obviously testing on me."

"Nope" Sherlock popped the damned "p". Dammit, he _was_ having fun. "We were obviously drugged in order to get here, but I'm 93% sure that this is real." He moved the great, big wooden chair along the floor, purposely creating a grating scraping sound. "This all has a very solid feel, not to mention the likelihood of both of us having the same hallucination is very -"

"Right." John stopped his friend before he could continue. "So, I repeat. Just where are we and how did we get here, and why?"

Sherlock's smirk grew into a full on grin. "Obviously, we are in the home of either The Three Pigs or The Three Bears. This…" He picked up the great, big spoon and dipped it in the lumpy, congealed stuff in the bowl, lifting it and letting it drip back in. "Would suggest the Three Bears, or at least someone has gone to great lengths to make us believe so. Just as obviously, we were drugged and brought here while under the influence." Sherlock brought his hands to his chin, his long fingers pressed together in the prayer like manner that John called his thinking pose. "As to why, now that _is_ an interesting question." He looked down into the face of his friend and said, "I really have no answer. There is not enough data."

John nodded to himself and then with a straightening of the spine and a readjustment of his shoulders, the soldier in him began to look for possible weapons, dangers, and maybe most importantly, ways of escape. There were no drawers or cupboards in this kitchen, so no knives, no iron skillets, not even a plastic spork, so the great, big wooden spoon would just have to do in a pinch. He turned back to the table to pick it up.

"What the hell are you doing?"

His companion was bent over the largest bowl of, well, let's just call it porridge shall we, sniffing at the contents. "Collecting data. Obviously."

John didn't stop himself from rolling his eyes, because let's face it, there might never be a more perfect time for eye rolling. "Obviously." Then, as he saw Sherlock lift a spoonful of the… stuff to his mouth, he shouted. "Wait! You are **not** going to eat that!"

He did. Of course he did. This was Sherlock bloody Holmes, the man who once ran his tongue along the wall of a murder victim's bedroom just to determine what the red stain could be. (For the record, it was strawberry jam and therefore not nearly as disgusting as it could have been. But that's not really the point, now is it?) John watched in horror as his best friend took a hefty bite, moved it about in his mouth a bit, then spat it back into the bowl with a look that was fighting between thoughtful and pure disgust.

John bent to peer up into his friend's face as he continued to sputter and spit, making little retching noises, trying to clear his mouth of everything porridge-like. "Are you alright?," he asked. "Jesus, Sherlock. That was just… I mean that stuff could be laced with anything." He pushed the man into the great, big, huge chair, put his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse and looked into his eyes to judge pupil reactions. "How do you feel? Did you taste anything peculiar?"

"Oatmeal."

"What?"

"It was oatmeal, John." Sherlock cocked one eyebrow and quirked his head to indicate that the fingers still resting on his neck were unnecessary. "Plain, unflavored, steel-cut oatmeal." He made one more face and sort of shuddered. "And it was way too hot. Even your uneducated palate would have balked at it."

"Yeah, okay. No need to be insulting." John removed his fingers, picked up the medium-sized wooden spoon, and moved to try the kitchen door. "My palate is just fine, thank you very much, and that,". He waved the spoon in the general direction of the offending bowl. "Could very well have been poisoned."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock watched as five and half feet of gray-blond frustration pulled at the locked tight door. "If they wanted us dead, they would have done it when they drugged us."

"Yeah, well…" John stopped tugging. "It was still a stupid risk. I'm pretty sure we've had the stupid risk talk before. And for the data, this," He kicked the door once, because the door certainly had it coming. "Is locked, and there are no doors or windows in the sitting room."

Sherlock was around the table and into the sitting room before the period could even be put on the sentence, no doubt with the pressing need of discovering for himself what John had already told him. John, for his part, threw his head back and looked at the ceiling while sighing the put-upon sigh that only flatmates of mad geniuses could possibly understand, and then did what he always did. He followed his friend. "See, as I said, no windows, no doors. And the door in the kitchen is locked." He looked around at the three chairs. "Although…"

"What?" Sherlock had sat in the great, big huge chair, resting his elbows on his crossed legs, once again in his prayer-like thinking pose. He was, however, fidgeting far more than normal.

John couldn't help it. Despite the situation, or maybe because of the situation, it was really hard to tell at this moment, he found himself fighting the urge to chuckle. "Are we a bit uncomfortable, there?"

"We…" And, oh, how that word dripped with disdain. "Are sitting on possibly the hardest stuffed chair in the Kingdom."

"Well, you can't sit here." John quickly dashed to the medium-sized chair and was sinking into the very plush cushions before Sherlock could even finish rising. He used his thumb to point to the wee, baby chair in the corner. "You could sit in _that_ chair," he said. "But I wouldn't recommend it."

"Oh, I suppose you believe it will break into pieces." Sherlock eyed the chair, suspiciously, almost as if he were sizing up an enemy.

"Yep." John popped the "p". Hell, Sherlock wasn't the only one who could have some fun in this, well, whatever the hell this was.

Sherlock threw a look at John that was supposed to cut like a dagger, but mostly just tickled him into smiling a bit wider and making his eyebrows rise in a silent challenge. "Fine." Sherlock, against his much vaunted logic, took the challenge, as John knew he would, and set about setting six feet of long-legged, bony frame into a child's wooden chair. When he was finally in, arms wrapped around his pulled-up legs that were so high his chin was resting on his knees, he sighed, and smiled triumphantly. "See, nothing to it. It's all simple geometry, really." He settled a bit more, wiggling his bottom into the exact spot it need to be. "In fact, it's quite comfort-"

That, of course, is when the wee, little chair did, indeed, break into pieces, depositing the great detective on the bottom that just a moment ago was so comfortable. John's grin moved to giggling and was threatening to travel right into a full on guffaw, when he was stopped by a sudden awareness. "Uh, Sherlock?" John was gripping the arms of the chair, using his own arms to pull his body into a standing position. Well, he was attempting to. Apparently, the chair was not in the mood to let him go. "Little help?"

"Problem, John?" Sherlock stood and made a show of surveying his coat for any damage. "Chair too soft, perhaps?"

"Sherlock, if you don't mind." He lifted one hand to indicate that he needed to be pulled out, but quickly replaced it, gripping the arm of the chair so tightly that his knuckles actually turned white with the pressure. "Jesus, it's like sitting in quicksand."

His companion, having ascertained that his coat was undamaged, was sifting through the wreckage of the the wee chair. "Ah," he said, picking up one very solid looking piece. "This should do better than the spoon, don't you think?"

"Sherlock." It was amazing how much threat could be placed into that one word when he tried.

"Oh, right. Yes. Well." Sherlock put down his new weapon, and grabbed both of John's hands. "Here we go." He pulled hard, and then harder, and then let go. "Really, John, how much weight have you gained?"

"Not funny, Sherlock." John's eyes narrowed and then flew open in panic. "Shit. I think I'm still sinking." By now John's body was folded into a v and his thighs were pressed against his chest. "Look," he said, trying hard not let the fact that he could no longer really take a deep breath push him over the edge. "I really need you to get me out of this thing."

"Yes. Yes, okay." Sherlock looked around, but found nothing that would be of use. Finally, he came back, and climbed on to the arms of the chair.

"What the hell are you doing?" Despite the slight crack in his voice that might indicate otherwise, John was absolutely not panicking. Really.

"Leverage." Said as if it explained everything.

"Right. Leverage." It explained nothing but at this point John was ready to try anything.

Carefully, and with far more confidence than someone precariously balanced on a man eating chair should display, Sherlock bent over and slid his arms under John's armpits and up behind his shoulders. "When I say now, I'm going to pull back and you're going to push forward. Is that clear?"

John didn't answer right away. He was too busy wondering what the hell he was supposed to push with. His feet no longer came anywhere near the floor and his arms were now squished against his sides.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was stern, but then it couldn't be easy standing there like that. "Is… that… clear."

"Mmph." That was meant to be a yes, but John was not only being squished by the chair he was now being smothered by Sherlock. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.

Sherlock rolled _his_ eyes, because it was quite possible _he'd_ never have a better chance, then, shouted, "Now!"

With a pull and a push both men fell to the floor.

"Are you alright?" There was that tinge of concern in Sherlock's voice that let the rare person who heard it know that the man was indeed human. "It umm didn't hurt you?"

"No," John answered, beginning to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. "No, I don't think it actually bit me or anything."

"Good." Sherlock nodded, in agreement with himself. "That's good." After a pause, he continued. "Then maybe you won't mind getting off me."

"Oh, yeah." Somehow, up until then, it hadn't really registered to John that he had in fact landed on top of Sherlock, although the way they had been locked together, he supposed it had been inevitable. He rolled off and then sat up. "So," he said. "What do we do now."

"We take your suggestion and go upstairs to look for a window."

"When did I suggest that again?" John stood and this time offered his hand to Sherlock.

"Well, you didn't, exactly." Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled to standing and then continued to grip John's hand as he dragged him toward the stairs. "But you were going to just before the chair took you prisoner."

John shook his hand loose, but followed as his friend knew he would. He looked back just in time to see the medium size chair pop back into shape, and if it seemed to sigh in remorse at having lost its mid-day snack, John certainly didn't hear it.

Neither man was surprised to find the loft contained three beds or that they were sized big, medium and small. Nor were they all that surprised to find that the only window in the room, the one right by the wee, tiny bed, was locked. Sherlock tried to hit it with his wee, little chair piece, but that just bounced back.

"Well, that was disappointing." John watched Sherlock rub his shoulder where it had been wrenched slightly. "What do we do now?"

Sherlock looked around the room, but seemed to find no inspiration. He then sighed and closed his eyes. Within seconds John saw the rapid eye movement beneath the lids that always indicated that Sherlock had entered his mind palace of carefully sorted and laid out memories, searching for something that would help them escape this fairy tale home. It was less than a minute before he opened his eyes and focused them so intently on John that the man took one step back just from the sheer power of it. "John," he said. "What did the girl do to get out of the house."

"Girl?" John asked, momentarily confused. "You mean Goldilocks?"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock answered. "Her. The girl. Goldilocks." He made a circular motion with his hand that no doubt was supposed to spur John onto quicker answering but really only made him want to swat it down. "What did she do to get out."

John frowned, unsure of where this was all going. "She went out the window, Sherlock. The bears came home and she went out the window and ran away."

"Out the window," Sherlock repeated. He spun around, looking at the walls as if he might have missed a second window in the small loft. He stopped and stared at the definitely only window in the room. "But our window is locked." He continued to stare but now added the gesture of tapping his index finger against his lower lip. John watched the process, frankly fascinated. This he knew, was where his flatmate, best friend and all around great consulting detective would no doubt solve the puzzle. "We were drugged and brought to this house. There has been no attempt to contact us, nothing to explain where we are or what we are to do except for our own knowledge of the the story. We haven't been killed or harmed in anyway. Surely we are meant to escape using what we know of the story."

"And yet the window is locked." John had meant his words to be prodding, hoping that if he said them, Sherlock would then say how that wasn't really a problem. Unfortunately, Sherlock remained uncharacteristically quiet, and John had the uncomfortable feeling that maybe this was the time Sherlock wasn't going to solve the puzzle. "Maybe we are supposed to just stay here until we die from dehydration."

"Noooo." Sherlock dragged the word out, thinking his way through it into the next sentence. "No," he said more firmly. "Think, John. If they had meant us to die slowly, they could have left us in an empty room." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Someone went to a great deal of expense. No. This…this is some sort of game, or test, if you rather. We were most definitely meant to…"

The last word was left unspoken as a crash was heard from downstairs. The crash was followed by shuffling sounds and then, and really, they should have expected this, growling sounds.

"Bears." John whispered the word. "And I bet there are three of them."

A cautious peek down the stairs confirmed what they already knew. There were bears down there, grizzlies to be exact, and there were three of them. They were, however, all three great, big huge bears, and they had already entered the sitting room where two of them were very busy ripping apart the medium-sized chair. The last bear was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, sniffing the air.

"Do you think they know we're here?" John asked.

"If they don't they soon will." Sherlock was frantically moving around the room, probing the window sill and bed frames for triggers that might open the window. "Bears have an incredible sense of smell. They were attacking that chair, John. I suspect they smelled us on it."

"The door is open now." John said. "They had to have crashed through it."

"That's no good." Sherlock kicked the biggest bed in frustration. "They are at the bottom of the stairs."

"If one of us goes down first," John had moved between Sherlock and the top of the stairs, but still back far enough that the bear couldn't see him. "The other could get out."

"No." Sherlock was shaking his head as if he could shake that notion right out and it would have never been said. "No. We are meant to survive. I know it." He grabbed John's shoulders and gave him a little shake. "How did she do it, John? What did she do that we haven't."

"I told you." There was a snuffling sound below them that really sounded as if two more noses had joined the one at the bottom of the stairs. "She went out the window. She laid down for a nap, the bears came up and she woke up and jumped out the window." John pushed at Sherlock as he tried to extricate himself from the man's vice-like grip. "Now let me go, Sherlock. At least one of us needs to get out of here."

Although his hold on John didn't loosen at all, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and had it been any other time, John would have known, that there, right there, was that moment he had been waiting for. As it was, he was completely taken by surprised when Sherlock spun him around so that his legs were now pressed against the end of the wee, little bed. John was already out of balance, trying as he was to push and pull himself away from Sherlock, so when the taller man pushed out with his long arms and let go of his shoulders, John fell backward on to the bed.

As soon as he landed, there was an audible click and the window slid open.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm, pulled him back up and practically pushed him out that window, before climbing out himself. It was a small house, so the fall wasn't really a problem outside of a bruise here and a scratch there. John got up first and looked back to the window, which had closed behind them, keeping the bears from jumping after. "Wanna tell me what just happened?"

Sherlock, who had also stood up, turned slowly in a circle and then looked up to the sky, as if he were trying to get his bearings by becoming a human compass. Who knows, maybe that's just what he _was_ doing. "I knew there had to be a way to open that window," he said. He started walking around the small house, stopping now and again to do that 360 turn. "That we were meant to survive was never the issue. How. That was really the question."

"Oh." John had a moment of clear understanding, and let's be fair, he does have them far more often that Sherlock likes to admit. "So when I said, she took a nap.."

"Right." Sherlock stopped just outside of the kitchen door, which, like the window, had been resealed. "I realized that we were meant to lay down on the smallest bed. Without really meaning to, we had been playing the game," and damn, if John couldn't hear the invisible quotation marks around the words _playing the game_ , "all along, first when I tasted the porridge, and then with the chairs, and finally you on the bed."

"Right," John said. "Great. We played the game. We survived." He looked around. "Now what? Do you even have any idea where we are?"

"Nope." Again with the popping "p". "Not a clue. Here's what I do know. We've been brought here by persons unknown for an as yet undetermined reason. We are currently next to a house that has been made up to look like a house from a children's story, from which we escaped by acting out said story. This house seems to be in a clearing surrounded by forest and there are three paths leading from the house into that forest, one made of golden bricks, which by the way, is very cliche, one made of paving stones and the third of dirt. The sky above us certainly seems real, as do the grass, trees and certainly, that pricker I landed on. I'm going to assume for now that they are real. When night falls, assuming we can see the stars, we will at least be able to tell what hemisphere we're in."

Sherlock stopped and looked at John. It was about here that he normally would have heard something along the lines of "Brilliant!" or "That was amazing. Quite amazing.", and frankly, he was kind of missing the praise. John, on the other hand, did know his lines, but so far today he had been drugged, kidnapped, nearly eaten alive by Mama Bear's chair and then chased by the whole bloody bear family. It was going to take a whole lot more than this to amaze him today.

"Frankly, Sherlock," he said, finally. "I pretty much could have done that summary myself."

"All right then." John sighed as he recognized Sherlock's _I'm about to have a magnificent strop and there's nothing you can do to stop it so don't even try_ voice. "Perhaps **you** can tell us what we should do now. You are, as you are constantly reminding anyone you ever meet, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. No doubt you've had survival training."

A silent conversation took place while the two men tried to stare each other down. It went something like this.

 _Really, Sherlock? Really? This is how we're going to play this?_

 _Yes, John. Do enlighten me, please. Tell me how you know more than I about this situation and how we should go about getting out of here._

 _I'll do it, Sherlock. Don't think I won't. I'll do it and you'll get all pissy and then I'll have to live with it for days._

 _Yes, well, if we live that long._

"Fine." John made a show of looking down all three paths, turning around slowly and looking up at the sky, and because it was that kind of day, and Sherlock wasn't the only person in the world who know how to work up a damned fine strop, he closed his eyes for a minute and made sure that Sherlock could see that they were moving quickly beneath the lids. Finally, he opened his eyes and made his pronouncement. "The way I see it, we have the following options. We can sit down here and hope that someone eventually finds us and that that someone wants to rescue us."

Sherlock made a sort of humphing noise to that and opened his mouth, but was stopped from what was no doubt a brilliant retort by John's out-turned hand. "Ooooor," he continued, making sure Sherlock had indeed stopped. "We could take one of the paths and see what new games have been planned for us. Or finally, I think, we could go into the woods without the paths for guidance and see if we can find a stream or something to follow."

"Perfectly adequate summary," Sherlock admitted. "But tell me, John. Which shall it be?"


	2. Riding Red in the Hood

From Chapter One

" _ **Fine." John made a show of looking down all three paths, turning around slowly and looking up at the sky, and because it was that kind of day, and Sherlock wasn't the only person in the world who knew how to work up a damned fine strop, he closed his eyes for a minute and made sure that Sherlock could see that they were moving quickly beneath the lids. Finally, he opened his eyes and made his pronouncement. "The way I see it, we have the following options. We can sit down here and hope that someone eventually finds us and that that someone wants to rescue us."**_

 _ **Sherlock made a sort of humphing noise to that and opened his mouth, but was stopped from what was no doubt a brilliant retort by John's out-turned hand. "Ooooor," he continued, making sure Sherlock had indeed stopped. "We could take one of the paths and see what new games have been planned for us. Or finally, I think, we could go into the woods without the paths for guidance and see if we can find a stream or something to follow."**_

" _ **Perfectly adequate summary," Sherlock admitted. "But tell me, John. Which shall it be?"**_

"We follow the cobbled path." That was it. A decision had been made. There could be no argument.

"But wouldn't it be better-" Sherlock was stopped by the most military of glares he had ever seen. He not only stopped. He found it slightly hard to breathe.

"You told me to choose." John voice was firm. Commanding even. "I chose. Let's go."

Sherlock stood at the intersection of the three paths, obviously questioning the equally obviously unquestionable demand. "John," he said, slowly. He felt the pull to explain why he must well, not question so much as… No. Actually he did. He needed to question this. But he would do so slowly and carefully. John would never really hurt him, but in command mode he packed a hard punch. "I understand why you wouldn't lead us blindly into the woods when it's getting dark and we don't have torches." Oh, God. The glare. He really hated the glare. John glared better than anyone he knew. It was almost frightening in its intensity. This was obviously non-negotiable to John, but still there was the need to try. "But surely, by that standard, it would be better to follow the yellow brick…"

"No."

"No?"

"NO!" Did John just bend his knees slightly and was that a bit of a crouch? Sherlock's eyes widened just a bit. John had just gone into combat mode over a fork in the road. Without even thinking about it, the taller man took his hands slowly from his pockets and backed up a few inches. He really did trust the John with his life, but John did have his bad days."We are not going down any goddamned fucking yellow brick… no. Just no." John shook his head to emphasize that no was indeed the answer. "Now I'm walking down THIS path. You follow or don't."

And then with almost military precision, John about faced and started walking down the path that was any color but yellow. Sherlock, for his part, looked at the broader, better lighted path they weren't choosing to the stiff back that was swiftly marching down the path less traveled. He frowned, stuffed his hands in his pocket and murmured something that sounded like git, and, for once, followed his friend.

He caught up quickly. Of course he did. John's short military stride was no match for the lope of long legs.

"John," he started. John did not break stride.

"John!, He tried louder and more demanding. John's eyes were straight down the path.

Sherlock sighed. "I just don't understand why you chose…" Sherlock's body stopped as his mind skipped to an answer. "Oh." And then louder with the I get it now form of the exclamation. "Oh!"

Sherlock's body caught up with his mind and jogged to catch up with his friend, who had somehow managed to move even faster without losing an ounce of tension. "You've never told me you were afraid of witches!"

John hung his head and then slowed. Sherlock wasn't sure but he seemed to be taking deep breaths. While John had been walking quickly, he certainly hadn't maintained a pace that would leave him winded. Angry then. But why? Surely he hadn't said anything that could be construed as "not good"?

"I'm not afraid of witches, Sherlock." John was still moving forward getting further and further from the path which Sherlock was sure was the correct path. "Especially green movie witches that I could melt with a bucket of water."

"Scarecrows, then." Sherlock finally caught up and was standing next to John who had stopped and was squinting at something in the forest. "Quite a common phobia, actually. Called formido-"

"What's that?" John moved to the edge of the path and squinted harder.

"Formidophobia." Sherlock was in full on encyclopedia mode. "It's the fear of scarecrows. Among phobias it's considered…"

"Not that, you git." John pointed in the general direction of his squint. "That. There's something red out there."

"Oh. Yes, that." Sherlock strode past John, off the path and into the woods, disappearing within seconds, his dark clothes and hair providing excellent camouflage. From somewhere in the trees came the disembodied voice that wasn't at all creepy in the night. Really. "Well, come on, John. Don't dawdle."

"This is just what we were not going to do." John growled. "I swear if you get caught in a vine and cut that bloody hard head of yours, don't come to me for the stitches."

"Noted." John startled as Sherlock seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Come see what I've found." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him further into the woods, and if John seemed to be holding Sherlock's hand right back, it was only because the woods were very dark and he didn't want them to get separated, and that's the answer he would give if anyone asked. He really hoped no one asked.

Three stumbles and a near collision with a low hanging branch later, Sherlock stopped in front of a tree and stood, grinning from ear to ear. "There you go." His voice was struggling to hide the excitement he knew John would not appreciate. "Your red thing."

There was indeed a red thing hanging from one of the limbs of the tree. "Oh," he said. "It's a hoodie."

"Not just a hoodie, John." Sherlock corrected. He was practically bouncing in his excitement. "A RED hoodie."

"Oh, right." John got it right away, but then what wasn't there to get. "Little Red Riding Hoodie. Clever."

"Said the man who once wrote The Case of the Vampire's Steak."

"Yeah, okay." John bent down to look at what was clearly a picnic basket. "What's this then?"

"Clearly it's a picnic basket." Sherlock squatted down next to it as well. "Presumably, it has goodies."

"For grandmother." John added.

"One would think so." Agreed Sherlock. He got down on hands and knees and crawled slowly round the basket, sniffing at it as he went. Finally, and with great care he opened the lid. Moving back so that he was balanced on his heels, he looked up at John, lips tight, the knuckles of his right hand to his mouth, as if he needed to bite them. "It's worse than I feared."

John squatted down as well and leaned in, but not too closely. Better to not disturb whatever was hiding in there. "What is it?"

"Biscuits, John." Sherlock said, a genuine smile growing slowly across his face. "Prepackaged biscuits, but no tea, no milk and no chocolate digestives."

"You cock!." John opened the basket now and found the biscuits, and yeah, no chocolate digestives, but there were jammy dodgers, so all was as right with the world as it could be in the middle of a deep, dark forest on a cold and starless night.

Sherlock reached in and pulled out a bottle of water. "I suppose that means there's a wolf out here somewhere."

"Mmm mffft." That probably meant "No doubt.", but jammy dodgers are notoriously hard to talk around when you have two or more in your mouth at the same time.

"There's a path over here too." Sherlock said, between sips. "What you want to bet it's a short cut."

"To Grandmother's house." John finished. "Hand me a bottle, yeah?"

Sherlock tossed one over. "Clearly we are meant to go down that dirt path.

"No, wait a minute." John was looking back to the path they started from. "Isn't that what got Little Red in trouble in the first place?" He got a far away look as he tried to remember the story he hadn't even really heard that much as a child. "Wasn't she tempted by the wolf to go down the wrong path and then eaten or something?"

"I thought it was the grandmother that was eaten." Sherlock picked up the basket and tugged the hoodie from its branch. "Either way, we can't stay here. There is undoubtedly a wolf somewhere in these trees." He held out the hoodie to John. "And it's getting cold."

John held the coat at arm's length, studying it warily.

"Put it on, John." Sherlock said, almost kindly. "It really is getting cold. I can feel it even in this." He held out his arms to display the Belstaff. "It's not like anyone is going to see you."

"Right." John really didn't need that much convincing. "But I refuse to go skipping down any lanes."

"As well you should. Now," Sherlock rubbed his gloved hands together in anticipation. "Let's go find Grandmother, shall we?"

 **(Drumboy100 asked me to take them into the woods, so into the woods they go. What will they find at Grandma's? The wolf, the old gal herself, a demented hunter with a sharp ax? And what happens when they get there? Will there be blood, or maybe tea? The answer comes from you, my friends. Leave your suggestions in the reviews. I want to hear them all!)**


	3. When Granny Comes Out of the Closet

It hadn't taken long to find Grandma's house. Well, it was a short cut, after all.

"Huh." John stood, hands deep in the pocket of his red hoodie, shivering under the starless sky that was now threatening to throw some snow at them just for fun. "This isn't at all what I expected."

Sherlock stood next to his friend, his body straight and still, nothing moving except his eyes. His eyes though were very busy, darting here and there, taking silent measure, cataloging everything he could about the building they had come upon. "I suppose there are some that _might_ consider this a cottage."

"Sure," John snorted. "If their name was Richard Bloody Branson, maybe."

"I'm relatively sure that nothing in the story actually specifies that the grandmother is poor." Sherlock shrugged. "It _is_ a house in the woods."

"It's a mansion in the woods, is what it is." John looked at the three story, steeped roofed, gable strewn, brick building that was surrounded by a well-cut carpet of grass, that was, in turn overshadowed by the branches of moss covered ancient trees that seemed to hang protectively over the entire estate. "So what do we do now? Go up and ring the bell?"

"I hardly think that will be necessary." Sherlock started down the walk that led toward the back of the house, no doubt to a servant's entrance. "I imagine we are expected. Besides," here he gestured toward the nearest window, which was unshaded and led to a dark interior. "Either no one is home, or all are asleep, or…"

"Or, it's a trap and they're waiting for us." John's hand slipped to the back of his pants, once again reflexively reaching for the gun that wasn't there. "And our basket of goodies didn't include anything we could use as a weapon, did it."

"We could try throwing stale biscuits." They had just walked down a short flight of stairs that led to a white door with a window with four square panes. Sherlock was leaning into the glass, his hands framing his face to cut the light.

"Hey," John grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. "At least pretend to be careful. Jesus, anyone could have been waiting on the other side."

Sherlock, who was now standing slightly to the side of the door, thanks to his cautious friend, reached over and turned the knob slowly and smiled when he heard the click that indicated it was opened. "There we are." He pulled the door open, revealing a large and completely deserted kitchen. "As I suspected," he said, feeling along the wall for a light. "Red Riding Hood is expected to come into the house. How else is she to find the grandmother."

"Or the wolf," John reminded. "Look, I get that you're having fun with the mystery and the oddness and finding possible clues, but let's not forget that this isn't really a game. We were kidnapped and drugged, and while we did get out in time, those were real bears back there and they were not looking for porridge." He watched Sherlock fiddle with the light switch, to no avail, and then start opening drawers and cupboards. "We don't know where we are or who put us here. We don't even know why."

John would have gone on. In fact, he had planned to go on and on. He had a long and splendid rant all ready just for this moment. Unfortunately, just as he was taking a deep breath in order to really gather that head of steam he would need, a very loud thud of a noise exploded right above their heads, and instead of letting go with a satisfying rant, John found himself holding his breath. After a moment, made all the more quiet with the lack of secondary thudding, he slowly, silently let out his breath and whispered, "Think the wolf found Granny?"

"Sounded as if something were dropped." Sherlock was now scanning the ceiling, and John watched him, wondering if he could somehow hear with his eyes. "I think we were meant to hear that and investigate." He looked down to John, one eyebrow slightly raised, exposing his excitement despite his otherwise complete mask of calm. "Someone, a very human someone, is getting impatient."

"Can we at least refrain from rushing right up? Maybe, oh I don't know, try avoiding a confrontation?"

"And do what, exactly?" Sherlock sat at on the bench by the huge butcher block table that didn't even begin to take up space in this huge kitchen. "I think if you try the doors and windows, you'll find that we are just as locked in as we were at the Three Bear house." He crossed one leg over the other. "There is nothing in the drawers or cupboards, just as before. At this point, I believe we are left with simply playing the game."

"Should have thought of that before you closed the bloody door." This was mumbled in a voice that may or may not have been meant to be understood.

"What was that, John?" Sherlock asked, leaning in just a bit, you know, all the better to hear him.

"Never mind," John growled. He started out of the room, going up the steps that would no doubt lead them through the servants' halls to dear Granny's bedroom. "Let's just get this over with."

Sherlock stood with a great show of boredom and followed after. And if he was smiling behind his friend's back, well, we didn't really see that, now did we?

As it turned out, the first doorway, down the first hall from the second set of stairs led to a very large, very dark bedroom. Very little light came from the curtained windows, just enough to make out vague shadows. Of course, the light switch in here didn't work either. That was really too much to hope for. John and Sherlock stood in the entranceway, allowing their eyes to adjust until some of the shadows solidified into furniture, including a large canopy bed, that held a faintly body-shaped series of lumps. Sherlock pointed to the overturned night stand that had no doubt been the thud from before. He started toward the bed, but was stopped by John's hand grabbing his arm just above the elbow and then, when he had Sherlock's attention, pointing to his red hoodie. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, silently expressing something along the lines of "You have got to be kidding me.", but then standing aside to let Red Riding Hood do her, um, his job.

John moved up to the bed so that he was standing alongside where he imagined the shoulders of the lump in the blanket would be and waited for something to happen. When the lump didn't move, John risked looking back at Sherlock who with a sharp movement of his head toward the granny lump, urged him forward. John frowned back at him, just to let him know what a bad idea he thought this all was, but then sort of nudged the lump with his forefinger. This time he was rewarded with a sort of sleepy groan. He stood back, waited half a minute, then rolled his eyes at the ridiculous turn his life had taken and said, "Why Granny, what big…" Well, everything seemed big, but he had to say something. "Nose you have."

"The better to smell ya with." The voice was gruff and accented. American maybe? Right, the wolf then.

"Tell me you are NOT going to make me play this out." John wasn't shouting exactly, but honestly, this was bordering on really, really stupid and there was only so much he could take. He prepared for the attack of the six foot something Granny, but only received a fake snore from the lump and a chortle, an actual fucking chortle, from Sherlock.

"Oh my Go- FINE!" Yeah, he was shouting now. "Why Granny," Each word was fairly spit as out in a sarcasm drip. "What a big beard you have."

"The better to… yeah, you know what? Here." The most male-seeming Granny that ever walked a forest path suddenly sat up and aimed something at _something_ past the foot of his bed. "I brought ya a little friend to play with."

John reflexively looked in the direction the something, which turned out not to be a gun, was pointing and so missed when Granny Wolfman pushed hard in order to get him out of the way and to make his escape. John was projected backward but would have been okay if he hadn't tripped over the upset nightstand. Head connected with floor with a very loud crack. Meanwhile, Sherlock had moved to block the door to keep the only person they'd seen so far from escaping. It took him nearly two minutes to realize that wolf in granny's clothing never made it to the door, and had escaped anyway.

John, by this time, had sat up and was looking around. "Where'd he go?" he said. Sherlock was kneeling next to him, looking into John's eyes, hands in his hair searching his head for injuries. "He just sort of disappeared." He batted his friend's hands away, but accepted one of them back when it was offered to help him up. "What was that he had anyway?"

"A remote control, it seems." Sherlock picked it up from the bed where it had been left. "I imagine that's how he opened that door." He gestured to the door that had been designed to look like part of the wall, but was now slightly ajar. Sherlock squinted one more time at John's face. "Are you okay? That was quite a knock you took."

"Yeah. Head hurts some." John might have complained more, but was stopped short, his head tilted slightly, much like a terrier that has heard the scuttle of a rat, or maybe a wolf, in the wall. "Did you hear that? You don't suppose there really is a wolf in here?"

Sherlock tried one of the three tall windows in the room. It was shut tight. "I would hardly think so." He moved to the next and after a grunted effort, found that one firmly closed as well. "Our ' _friend_ ' was obviously decked out to be the wolf." He tried the third window. It didn't budge. "Well that's disappointing."

John shrugged. "Maybe we're meant to follow Granny out the closet." There was another noise, this time unmistakably a growl and it was coming from their proposed escape route. "Or maybe not."

Sherlock stepped toward the closet. "But our man had to have gone out this way, so there must be some way round."

"Don't!" John warned. "There has to be another way out, yeah? I mean if we are meant to survive it doesn't make sense to meet a wolf in an enclosed space like that. Besides," he added. "You know what they say. When the wolves come out of the wall, it's all over." It was at this point that the bedroom door slammed shut, all on its own. Really, they should have seen that coming.

"Well," Sherlock said, "That settles that, I believe." He moved slowly, and this time, with real caution, toward the place where the wall had opened, and gripping the edge with one hand, keeping the door between himself and the opening, pulled it further open. Well, he would have done, but just as he gripped the door it was pushed aside by a large, black wolf. Sherlock was momentarily shocked into frozen inaction and found he couldn't quite move as the wolf bounded toward John, who, unfortunately, was similarly frozen.

The wolf pounced, front paws catching him on the chest, pushing him down. John did the first thing his lizard brain thought to do. Since his hands had been busy breaking his fall, he kicked out as hard as he could. He caught the wolf just under the rib cage and with a yelp the wolf fell away. John managed to sit, reaching for the lamp that had been on the now overturned nightstand. He started swinging it, keeping the wolf from making another full on attack. It was now quickly moving in and out of his reach, nipping at anything that it could get to. When it finally caught John by the leg, it clenched on and started tugging and shaking his head like a dog with a chew toy, which, at the moment, John was pretty sure was just what he was.

John screamed, as much from fear and anger, as from pain. A part of his brain even had time to register that these were nearly new trousers and Sherlock was bloody well going to buy him a new pair. Suddenly, everything stopped and the wolf was lying on its side, panting and obviously stunned. Sherlock was standing over him, clutching a standing lamp, eyes popping with his own fear and anger.

He threw the lamp aside and grabbed John's upper arm, pulling him up so fast he almost lost contact with the ground. He pulled John roughly across the floor and through the closet door, which closed behind them with a very definite slam. Without a word, the duo crept along the passageway, which eventually led to some narrow stairs and out a side entrance.

John leaned against the building, eyes closed, his body trying to catch his breath and his mind trying to catch up to what just happened. Finally, he opened them to find Sherlock kneeling before him and lifting his trouser leg.

"Well, that doesn't look too bad." Sherlock looked and sounded calm, but John couldn't help but notice that his long fingers were trembling just a bit. "I'd say we made a pretty good escape."

"Are you serious?" John voice had climbed to meet his adrenaline levels and then just kept on going. "Are you fucking serious, here?" He shook his leg to get Sherlock to let go and that caused just enough pain to make his voice reach an even higher decibel. "I was just attacked by a fucking wolf and you are now telling me we made a pretty good escape," That last bit was shouted in a remarkable imitation of Sherlock's posh public school voice.

"Well, all things considered." Sherlock was now using his let's be sensible about this now voice. John really kind of hated that voice right now. "I'd say so, yes. And, may I remind you, you were the one who chose this path."

"No," John had calmed enough to move from the wall and to test his leg, which, in fact, didn't seem too bad after all. "I chose the cobbled path. _You_ led us here."

"Oh, yes." Sherlock would never admit it, but he had sort of forgotten that part. "So which way do we go now, hmmm?"

"Oh no." John was shaking his head and crossing his arms. "No, no, no. This time _you_ choose. I'm done playing this game."

"Fine." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, but there wasn't that spark of excitement that was there before. He wouldn't say this out loud, ever, but when John got hurt, twice now, things took a more serious bend for him. "Then this time we go down the yel…"

"I should warn you, though." John's arms were still crossed. "There is no way in bloody hell, I'm taking that gold path right now."

Sherlock fought hard to keep the chuckle on the inside, he really did. He couldn't do it, of course, so he turned his back. John was not fooled, but he couldn't be arsed to call him on it right now. "Alright then," Sherlock agreed, almost too readily, but John wasn't going to call him on that either. "The cobbled path it is."

As they walked around the house, heading back toward the road they had left, Sherlock asked, "So, is it lions?"

"What?"

"Well, I know it can't be little black dogs you're afraid of." Sherlock's voice held not a bit of sarcasm. "You obviously held your own against a wolf, so a Toto dog should be no problem."

"Shut it, Sherlock"

"No but really, being afraid of a lion is nothing to be ashamed of." Sherlock was obviously talking more to himself than to John at this point. "It's just practical."

God, this night was never going to end.


	4. He'Snow Beauty

John Watson was in a bad mood. Sherlock could tell because his friend's shoulders were held with a military stiffness, but the left one hung just the smallest bit lower than the other. That in itself meant bad mood. There was more, of course. He was being quiet. No, not _quiet_. Silent. The men were surrounded by a brooding silence and for once it wasn't Sherlock who was brooding. Unfortunately, that meant that he was both the target and the cause of said brooding, and that would just never do.

"You're limping." Sherlock Holmes was, of course, a genius, but every now and again the obvious had to be stated, if only to get John angry enough to talk.

"Yeah." John wasn't really good at silent brooding anyway, despite living with the very best at the skill, so he added. "Being tired, wet, frozen, possibly concussed and definitely wolf-bit will do that to a person." Brooding _and_ accusation, then. Sherlock wondered if silence wouldn't have been better after all. "What are the odds that we find some kind of shelter in here that isn't harboring a wild animal ready to pounce?"

"Oh, I'd say fairly good."

"How do you figure that?" John pulled his hands from the pockets of his hoodie and shoved them into the pockets of his trousers no doubt hoping to pry some heat from his body core to his fingers. Rain had turned to sleet and sleet to sheets of something that just wasn't describable with just one word. Sherlock considered offering his friend his coat, which was definitely more suited to the weather they were forced to walk through, but he was pretty sure this would just cause a row, and, from a purely pragmatic point of view, it was better that one of them at least stayed healthy enough to pull them through this.

Still, as they continued on, Sherlock walked slightly behind and to the side of his friend. It wasn't that John needed his protection or supervision. He was more than capable of looking after himself. It's just that the man had a tendency to soldier on, if you could pardon the pun, and ignore when he was in pain or in need of medical attention, which, in fact, he was obviously doing now. Sherlock frowned. He really must get John someplace warm and dry.

"Sherlock?" John had stopped and Sherlock had to adjust course before he sailed right past. "Are you with me?"

Sherlock stumbled a bit as he came fully back, realizing that he had started to lose his concentration to the worry, just a bit, but caught himself and continued walking as if nothing were the matter. "What do we know about our host?" he asked.

"That he's a bloody psychopath with an obsession with children's stories?"

"No. Well, yes, but we know more." Sherlock continued walking as he spoke. "We know from the elaborate set up that he or she, more probably he, is wealthy and has influence, or is sponsored by someone who is wealthy and has influence. We know that he has been somehow keeping track of our movements because he's known what paths we've taken in order to have the props set in time. Most importantly right now, we know that he has some internal sense of fair play because though in each case so far we could have died or been severely injured, we also had the means to escape. Finally, we know that he does expect us to make our way through several of these little games, or why else set them up in the first place. As we already know, he could have killed us quite easily several times along the way."

"So, you are assuming he doesn't mean us to die from the elements, yeah?" John was visibly shivering now.

"That would be my conclusion. Yes."

The two men continued to walk in silence. John's head was held down and his arms were tight against his body and it was obvious that his limp was getting worse. Sherlock found he had to slow himself down several times just to keep himself near. Another quarter hour passed when John stopped walking and lifted his head. "Hey," he said. His voice sounded wrong to Sherlock, tired and hopeful all at the same time. "Look at this." He moved away from the cobbled path on to what looked like, at first glance, a water run off. "This is an old roadway, isn't it."

Sherlock crouched down to get a closer look. Water was coursing down, creating a small stream, but it was far too straight and the rocks lining it far too similar to be an actual waterway. He stood up and looked behind him. The cobbled path actually intersected this path, was built over it. "I think you're right," he said. "It might be very old. Maybe even Roman."

"So not laid out by our host."

"No, probably not." Sherlock peered along the roadway, trying to see anything beyond shadows of trees and sheets of wet. "But that doesn't mean it isn't part of his plan. He's obviously using existing structures."

"I s-s-ay we f-f-ollow it a bit." Now that they had stopped moving, John was stuttering, which caused Sherlock to turn and really look at his companion. He was hunched over in an unconscious move to preserve body heat, his weight was shifted almost entirely to his left to keep pressure off his right leg, which must hurt where he was bit, and most worrisome, his face was pinched and lacked much color at all. "M-maybe there'sss ssome shelt-ter down there."

Sherlock meant to smile in a comforting kind of way, but since comfort really wasn't one of his better areas, it came out as more of a grimace. "I agree," he said. "I could do with a bit of a rest." If John saw through the lie and into the worry, he did a good job of ignoring it, and that worried Sherlock more than anything.

Again Sherlock let John take the lead. Anything could happen in the dark and he needed to be able to see in order to help. Although he'd never admit it, he was worried about his friend. John had moved from limping to stumbling and that stubborn determined stride had long given way to more of an automated one foot in front of another march. They had only been on this path for a short while, just long enough to soak their feet with the slushy water, when they came upon the ruins of an old building. It was circular and made of stone. It had probably once been at least a few stories high, but had long been crumbling in on itself.

Stopping outside the ruin, they took careful stock of their potential shelter. "Well, it _is_ old."

John laughed. "G-g-ood observation, that." He moved toward a rock-strewn opening, that might have once been a door, but could have just as likely been made by an angry wild boar. "Probably not the safest place we could stop, but there are dry spots and enough fallen branches in there to start a fire."

Sherlock stepped through the opening and looked around. "As I suspected. Our visit was anticipated." He kicked at some of the branches. "See there? Those were cut and not from the trees surround the keep."

"Y-you know what?" John pushed the water-logged hood from his head. "I don't c-care. It's dry, we're out of the wind,and there doesn't seem to be anywhere to hide a t-t-tiger." He sat down, keeping his right leg straight before him. "I say we stay at least until the sun comes up, maybe get a c-couple hours sleep." He looked around. "I don't suppose our host left us some mmmatches."

This time Sherlock meant to grimace but it came out a shy grin. "Well, actually…" He reached into one of the deep pockets of his Belstaff and pulled out a lighter.

John's face nearly shone with relief, but John, being John, quickly forced that expression into a disapproving scowl. "Tell me you don't have cigarettes in there too."

"Nope." Sherlock's grin grew into the familiar smirk. "Well, not any more." Sherlock started piling sticks and dry leaves into a clear area that seemed sheltered enough to keep smoke from blowing back in their faces. John watched, leaning against the interior wall, which didn't look particularly comfortable, but had to be better than walking at this point. It took a few tries, but eventually he had a fairly sizable fire going. John scooched away from the wall, getting just as close to the light and warmth as he possibly could and held out his hands, palms open toward the flame.

"Oh, God," he said. "That's a bit of heaven right there." As steam began to rise from his clothes, John looked far more comfortable than he had since they left Granny's.

But Sherlock never just looked, he observed. John may have enjoyed the warmth, but his body was still far too cold. Every few minutes he would shiver violently enough that his whole body would shake, causing him to bang his leg just enough that he would give a small hiss of pain. There really was no way a person could cover that up, although apparently, John felt he had to try, idiot that he was. "You should probably take the hoodie off." There was a kind of humming sound that came from John that Sherlock was pretty sure was agreement, but no effort to make it happen. The only movement John was making was a tiny upper body sway. John was obviously more asleep than awake at this point and not really aware of what he had been asked to do.

Sherlock stood watching him for a moment, not sure if what he was about to do would be appreciated or went beyond the line drawn in the flatmate boundary sand. Still, needs must, so Sherlock sat down behind his friend, his legs splayed around John's still shivering body. He reached around and unzipped the hoodie, pulled it off and then spread it on the ground near them to dry out. Then he opened his Belstaff, which was still warm and dry on the inside, and wrapped it around them both. When John not only didn't resist, but leaned in, he put his arms around his chest, and very slowly lay them both down.

John stirred a bit at that. "Wha you doin'"

"Laying us down. Sharing body heat." Sherlock kept his voice clinical and soft. "Go to sleep."

"S'nice."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, although frankly he was less than comfortable. "It's nice. Now go to sleep."

He hadn't meant to sleep. He had meant to be the stalwart friend he knew John would be in the same situation and watch for enemies and crumbling walls and stray tigers. Oh sure, he was hungry and sore, and truth be told maybe just a wee bit tired, but after all, it was all transport. And okay, yes, he was far more comfortable now that he had found and removed the small pile of rocks under his right shoulder, and please, God, don't let this be some sort of weird Princess and the Pea moment, and right, John was warm now and he did feel rather well, cozy. Oh, who are we kidding. Sherlock fell asleep. Even the best transport shuts down now and then.

He awoke several hours later, if the position of the sun was any indication, to find that he was basically in the same position in which he had fallen asleep although now John's head was somehow cradled between his arm and chin. His first thought would have disappointed every speculative tabloid and Yarder out there. It wasn't how nicely John fit into his spoon, although, honestly, he did, it was how badly he needed to pee, and how trapped he was with John still sleeping.

His second thought was, "Why is John still sleeping?" In almost every scenario he could think of John would normally wake first, find a way out of the arm trap, pee, make tea from some leaf he learned about in a survival guide and then wake Sherlock. The body next to him was breathing, well, snoring, and was warm, so alive then. But, maybe it was too warm? Normally, when Sherlock wanted to take the temperature of something he would use a thermometer, but he was fresh out of those, so he took his cue from the movies and went to feel John's forehead. This proved to be harder than he thought. The hand attached to the arm trapped under John's neck wouldn't reach and his other hand was stuck, along with his arm, in the sleeve of his coat which seemed to be pinned under his back. He tried struggling a little, but neither coat nor John seemed willing to budge. The very fact that he couldn't take John's temperature made it impossible to think of anything else, well, that and having a really good pee. Finally, as a last resort, Sherlock did what his mother would have done. He removed his chin from the top of John's head and, checking one more time to make sure the man was asleep, quickly kissed his right temple. For the record, John was a little warm, but probably nothing to worry about.

"Oh very nice." Sherlock startled and somehow managed to get out of his coat, stand, and quickly turn around. Behind him, sitting on a ledge that had probably been at one time or another the third floor of the keep, sat a woman in a renaissance style dress. Her legs were hanging over the ledge, tantalizing close but out of Sherlock's stretchiest reach. She put down the flowers she had been braiding and picked up the gun that had been sitting beside her. "Really," she said. "I love it. Snow White kisses Sleeping Beauty awake." The woman bent over a bit as if to get a better look. "And look, our beauty awakes."

John was indeed waking up, but, Sherlock couldn't help noticing not with the usual quick attention. He was looking around as if he didn't quite remember what had happened the night before and was trying to deduce his way into the morning. That, coupled with the bleary eyes, palish skin and reddish checks indicated that John did have a bit of a fever, but whether it was from the night's excursions or the wolf bite, it was hard to tell at the moment. Did wolves carry rabies? He'd have to ask John. No, on second thought, that probably wasn't a good idea. He'd have to figure that out on his own. The first symptom would be…"

"Sherlock?" John was standing beside him now. "Want to fill me in on what's happening here?"

"Apparently, I'm Snow White and you're Sleeping Beauty." Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the woman on the ledge, but he could almost hear John taking that in, rolling it around a bit, and then accepting his part.

"Yeah, okay." Then nodding toward the ledge. "Who's she then, Rapunzel?"

"I think she's meant to be a dwarf."

"Little person, if you don't mind."

Sherlock would normally have a great retort for that, and he put it down to lack of sleep and sufficient caffeine that he couldn't think of one. John, however, simply said. "Sorry. Under the circumstances I'm sure you can understand the mistake." He looked pointedly at the gun she was holding. "So, you here to shoot us? Because I honestly don't think either story ends that way."

"This? Nah." She handled the gun loosely and Sherlock could feel John tighten. John often railed at him about how handling a gun with less than total respect can end in tragedy. "This is just to make sure you all stay down there while I give you a message from the boss."

"I don't suppose that includes his name."

Sherlock smiled. Only John would ask something like that in a situation like this.

"Oh I do like you." The woman smiled, obviously charmed by the doctor. "I really do. I hope that _you_ at least survive."

Sherlock looked up at that. "So we can survive."

"Oh, yeah." The woman turned to Sherlock and her demeanor was now all business. "What you said before about the boss? That he plays fair? That was all true. You play the game and you can get out of this little Disney World of ours." She smiled again, but for Sherlock the smile had just a bit of an evil twist. "On the other hand, life's a gamble, isn't it Mr. Holmes. Ain't nothing sure but death and taxes. Oh, and let me just say for the record here, if you don't play, death is certain." Sherlock kept his face neutral but his mind was racing. He was sure something more was being said than just the words the little person had obviously rehearsed. "So you just keep following the paths now boys and we'll see you at the end. Maybe."

The woman stood, shook the dust from her dress and pointed her gun back toward the path. "Now you all just take care of what you must and then head out. Oh, and Doctor Watson," The woman's voice became almost flirtatious and the American accent she'd been sporting suddenly got very Scarlett O'Hara. "The boss told me to tell you that the wolves did have their shots, but I'd be careful with that bite, hun. I had an uncle once got bit by a dog and they ended up taking his leg."

"Right well, thanks for the warning, I guess." John raised his eyebrows. "You going to just stand there and watch while we 'do what we must'?"

"I thought I might, yeah." She laughed a bit, but Sherlock thought it sounded forced. "I might even take pictures. But, seriously guys, I can't really leave 'til you do, so let's get on with it."

Sherlock realized suddenly that he mustn't put off doing what he must one second more, so he took the woman at her word, unzipped his trousers and found an accommodating spot on the wall. John on the other hand was having none of it.

"No way," he said, and walked out of the keep and out of sight. When Sherlock caught up with him he was sitting on a rock, pulling the right leg of his trousers down over his sock.

"You okay?"

John stood up quickly. "Yeah, just didn't feel like taking a wee in front of whoever the hell that was." Sherlock had meant the leg, and he was sure John knew he meant the leg, but if John didn't want to talk about that then he'd respect that… for now. "So we keep going down this road?"

Sherlock nodded. "For now, I don't think we have a choice."

John sighed, put on his now dry hoodie, and started walking. "So back there. All that," he said. "There was something in that wasn't there. A clue of some sort?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip as he thought that over. "Several, in fact."

"Good." Then after a bit. "Are you going to tell me?"

"No," Sherlock answered. "No, not yet. I'm not close enough to a theory yet to share."

"Right." John nodded once. "You will let me know, won't you?"

"Of course." Sherlock smiled. "I do have one question though."

"Just the one?"

"Just one."

"Fine." John opened his arms in a welcoming manner. "Let's have it."

"Is it wizards?"

"Oh my god!" John shouted. "Could you give it a rest?"

Sherlock managed to look somewhat chagrined.

"See if I let you kiss me again."


	5. Chapter 5

John wasn't nearly as upset as he should be, and while that kind of bugged him, because really he should be very, very upset, he couldn't help thinking that if you had to be kidnapped and placed into some kind of children's nightmare world, well, at least the scenery was nice. After all, now that the sun was up and the rain had stopped and nothing vicious was actually chasing them, he had a chance to really notice their surroundings. The trees were big and tall and like something right out of, well, a fairy tale. You could almost believe that behind the next tree Robin of Sherwood would jump out and demand passage through.

"Hey, you don't think we're in Sherwood Forest, do you?"

Sherlock didn't even pause to think. "More likely the Forest of Dean, going by the flora."

"Oh." John was kind of disappointed. It might have been kind of cool to play a game against the Sheriff of Nottingham, although, the way his luck was going he probably would have been set up as a target in the tournament or something. "You'd think with all this walking we'd actually run into someone or maybe a landmark or something."

"It's a big forest and parts of it are quite dense. Parts are often closed down for study or used for filming. Other parts are privately owned." Sherlock bent to look closely at a patch of flowers before continuing. "Surely you've noticed that the paths often curve round and intersect. I suspect we've been walking for hours but not really getting all that far from where we started."

"I did notice, thank you very much. Soldier, remember?" John reached up to pull a leaf off a tree, for no other reason that he could and, unlike the trees in London, this one didn't seem like it would really miss just the one leaf. "Remind me again why we don't leave the paths and walk until we find our way out."

"We are undoubtedly being watched." Sherlock pointed up at what looked to John like a typical bird's nest, cradled in the crook of a typical branch, of what seemed one of many, many typical trees. "There are cameras everywhere." John looked and yep, there it was. He vaguely wondered if they had chased a mother bird out to do that or if that was actually the nest of the shiny-eyed urban camera. "We've been told that if we play the game we have a chance to walk away, but if we don't we will be killed. At this point, I'm not prepared to test the word of our unseen host."

"Speaking of which," John kicked at a stone, because when you kicked things in London, they often hit things like dogs or rats or cranky, big men with attitudes. Here stones just went jouncing down a path like stones were meant to do. "Anything you're ready to share on that front, because I'd really like to know what we're dealing with here." John had the almost uncontrollable urge to start whistling the theme from the Andy Griffith show, but decided that was probably going just one hokey step too far. He kicked another rock instead. Unfortunately, this one jounced itself right into a much larger rock, ricocheted back and hit him in the right leg, which up to that very moment had maintained a relatively light background kind of throbbing that John had been completely able to ignore.

"Jesus Buggering Christ!" John started hopping and continued hopping until he got to the big, bad rock that had just thrown his own stone at him. He sat down hard and reached for his leg, thought better of it, and then put his hands on his thighs and just bent over to catch his breath. "God that fucking hurt."

"That's a new one." Sherlock bent down to pick up a bunch of stones. "I'll have to remember that one."

"What?" John looked up and watched as Sherlock put the stones in a little pile next to the rock he was sitting on. "Wait. Are you recording my swears?"

"Well, you _are_ quite imaginative and you never know when something like that might come in handy." He came over and grabbed at John's leg. "Here, let me have a look at that."

John pulled his leg back and managed to hit it on the rock. He didn't swear, though he almost had to bite his tongue in two to keep from doing so, but damned if he'd give Sherlock an even bigger blue lexicon. "Leave it, Sherlock."

Yeah, like that would ever happen. Sherlock gave John a look that clearly said, "Don't be an idiot." and, like an idiot, John let him look. Sherlock frowned, obviously not liking what he saw. "The area around the bite is swollen and warm, John. It's infected, isn't it?" It sounded like a question, but both men knew that Sherlock knew an infection when he saw it.

"Yeah." John kind of had to admit it, now that the evidence was out in the open. "It's actually a little worse than it was this morning."

"Looks painful."

"It's not." Okay, that was a lie, but John knew Sherlock would pretend he believed him until John couldn't lie any more. It was what they did. "So," John asked, changing the subject, thereby indicating that this conversation was done for now. "How long have you been marking our trail?" John indicated the pile of rocks with the tip of his toe.

"Since we left the first house." Sherlock offered a hand up to John. Both men were a little surprised when he took it. Neither commented upon it. "I thought we might need to find our way back at some point."

"Ah," John smiled. "So you were a boy scout?"

"Hardly." Sherlock erected a pile of disdain to go with his pile of stones. "I did, however, become a Leader for a period of three weeks, once. For a case."

"Do I want to know?" John did want to know because, come on, a title like the Case of the Scary Scout was just waiting to write itself.

Sherlock started walking as he smirked out the answer. "Let's just say there are really a lot of clever uses for a properly tied knot." John was busy silently changing his blog story to The Knotty Problem when Sherlock suddenly, and without any reason that John could see, stopped and started sniffing the air. "Do you smell that?"

John frowned, trying to figure out if this was the start of a practical joke, but took a short, experimental sniff, just in case. His eyebrows lifted and he looked at his companion, who gave him a nod of encouragement to get him to try again. This time John inhaled deeply. "Pine, flowers, dirt and… no. Really? Is that? Oh my God, Sherlock?" John's eyebrows couldn't get any higher without actually climbing up and joining his hair. "Someone is cooking something that smells absolutely delicious." They had eaten nothing but a handful of berries from a mostly picked over bush since the picnic basket treat of day old biscuits so pretty much even the smell of heated road-kill might seem appetizing at this point.

Sherlock, nose in the air, turned completely around three times before stopping and pointing, much like a hunting dog chasing after a wild hamburger. "It's coming from down there."

Down there was a fairly steep, rock-strewn, most definitely water run off and not ancient roadway. It led into the trees that were so thick that you could not see where the path hit the bottom. "I don't know, Sherlock." John hated to say this. I mean he really, really hated to say this, because damn something smelled good, but… "There could be anything down there and there's no guarantee that if we get down we can get back up."

"You're right, John." Sherlock was already testing the path, easing himself down sideways. "Anything could be down there, but, right now I'm pretty sure I smell chicken."

John was hungry. He was the kind of hungry he imagined bears and badgers felt when they came out hibernation. He was so hungry he could practically feel his spine through his navel. My God, he was so hungry he was actually drooling at the word chicken. There was never any doubt. He was going to follow Sherlock. Still, it was his job to be the cautious one, so, even as he too began his descent, he had to say it. "I don't know, Sherlock. This feels like just another game."

"Of course it's a game." Sherlock had adopted a rhythm of step, slide, step, look for problems, repeat, that John decided to imitate. "But this is a game set up to give us some nourishment as well." Step. Slide. "I've no doubt that we…" Step. Stop and look. "Will be able to come out of this one as well as we have the others." Step. Slide…. Oooops, slide a little more. "We just have to figure out the story a bit faster this time."

John wanted to say, "Like before the wolves come out of the walls," but found that he had lost his rhythm and was now sliding far more often than stepping. By the time he found his bearings, he was already at the bottom of the hill and standing next to Sherlock, who, in turn, was standing in front of a diner with sign on it's roof proclaiming it to be The Sugar Shack. "Huh." He said, less than brilliantly, but hey, he was out of breath and this was sort of surprising. "It's a diner."

"Yep." Sherlock was standing still, and though his eyes were open, and obviously gathering information from the building and its surroundings, he was uncharacteristically quiet. "It is most definitely a diner."

"I don't remember Medieval Europe having diners do you?" Okay, it wasn't the greatest of jokes, but, frankly, Sherlock was creeping him out a bit and he was going for a smart remark, an eye roll, anything here. "Maybe the big, bad wolf set up a barbeque pork stand."

Sherlock frowned, and his voice had a sort of far away sound to it. "I've told you how Mrs. Hudson and I met."

"Mmm, yeah." John answered slowly, not liking where this was going. "You saved her from her abusive, drug-running husband by assuring his execution."

"Actually, he was just a cog in a bigger operation, but yes, that's the gist of it." Sherlock took several cautious steps toward the diner, looking around for, well, John wasn't really sure what he was looking for. The man seemed… spooked, for lack of a better word. Like he was walking toward a haunted house. "This was in the U.S., in Florida."

"Right." John remembered, partly because he always had trouble imagining Mrs. Hudson anywhere but London. "Oh." Pieces started fitting together. "They have diners like this in Florida, yeah?'

"Exactly like this," Sherlock answered. He put his hand to the outside wall and chipped off a piece of paint. "Down to the last detail. Well, except for the name. I suspect that has more to do with the game."

"So this…" John swept his arms to include the diner, the forest, the kidnapping and the wolves. "All of this is somehow related to that."

"I suspected so after we met the dwarf."

"Little person."

"She mentioned Disney World and the death and taxes thing was something Hudson always used to say." Sherlock gave the screen door to the diner a tentative pull and it opened easily, a bell going off as it did. "This just confirms it."

"But nothing I've ever heard about Mr. Hudson would indicate he was a fair man," John said. He had moved closer to Sherlock and the door and damn, the smells were intoxicating. He could almost float in like one of those cartoon characters on the waves of the aromas. "And," he added. "He's dead."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I attended the execution."

"So what? I suppose we continue to play the game then?" Although all the warning bells in all the warning stations in every part of his brain were clanging, John really hoped that the answer was yes, because it was right then that he saw the counter and on that counter where a tea kettle and a pan of something that smelled like Christmas and he was willing to fight off alligators if that was the beast du jour just to get a bit of those. "Hope we find a clue?"

John knew that Sherlock thought of his body as transport that needed limited amounts of fuel, but it had been at least two days of nearly nothing to eat. Even Sherlock had to be hearing the siren call of Southern Fried Chicken. "Play or die, is it not? Given those choices I say chick- er play."

He opened the door and gestured for John to go in first. John fought the temptation to run for the tea kettle and gingerbread and did a fairly thorough reconnaissance. After declaring the place actually as empty as it seemed, he watched Sherlock jump over the counter and dash into the kitchen. He chuckled as he heard exclamations of delight while he filled the electric kettle with water. "You think this is all good to eat then?"

"Umm hmph." Sherlock had obviously already decided it was. There was a pause, then, "Poison doesn't seem to be his style. And come to think of it, I don't believe I know of a popular fairy tale where poison played a huge part."

"Yeah, okay, but let's keep a sharp eye all the same, yeah?" He found a serving spoon and shoveled gingery goodness directly from the platter to his mouth. His eyes went back into his mouth and all words fled, pushed out by an orgasmic groan that somehow found a way around the dessert. "Oh my God, Sherlock," he said when thoughts and then words once again found their way back to his brain. "This. This right here is heaven." He stood for a moment in silent reverence and then pick up the kettle and filled it with water. "Care for tea?"

John plugged in the tea kettle and set up two mugs for tea. Meanwhile, Sherlock had found a plastic tub full of fried chicken in one of the refrigerators. "Hot or cold?" he asked, holding up a plate with a drumstick and a breast.

"Hot. Most definitely hot." John answered. "I hate cold left-over chicken."

"Heathen" Sherlock took a huge bite from a thigh. "I practically lived on this during my time with the Hudsons." He did, however, put John's plate in the microwave to warm it up. When John handed him his tea, he stuck his head in the pass through and asked. "Is that gingerbread?"

"Oh yeah." John said with possibly a bit more enthusiasm than gingerbread usually inspired. "You really have to try some."

"Perhaps after the chicken." John watched as Sherlock pulled a bit of meat off the bone and put it in his mouth, making a smacking sound as he slowly pulled out his index finger. It would have sounded positively obscene to John if he stopped to think about it. Which he absolutely never would do. Really. "What story do you think we're in then, hmmmm? The Gingerbread Man maybe?"

"Well, the cake is sort of just sitting here waiting to be eaten."

"Which you have."

John smiled. "Which I have. So I'm guessing not that. Maybe…." John looked around trying to find clues in the diner. He was giving up, hoping that Sherlock hadn't noticed the lack of a full answer, when he glanced at the pan of gingerbread and the proverbial light bulb didn't so much turn on as flare. "Oh." A part of John reprimanded himself for once again using Sherlock's patented flash of understanding sound. If he kept this up he'd have to pay some sort of usage fee. "It's Hansel and Gretel!"

"Hansel and Gretel?"

Okay, not really the enthusiastic praise for not being an idiot for once John was hoping for. He held up the pan of gingerbread and raised his eyebrows and went into "I'm talking to a child, but a kind of stupid child" mode. "Yeah, you know," he said. He pronounced each word slowly and distinctly. "Two children get lost in the woods and find a house made of sweeties and begin to eat it."

"And?" Sherlock pulled a stool over to the pass through, sat down and took another bite. "Then?"

"And then," John paused to make sure Sherlock wasn't taking the piss. Really, who didn't know the story of Hansel and Gretel? But, Sherlock continued to watch John without a hint of guile, so he carried on. "And then the witch that owned the house came back and took them captive, making Gretel a slave and imprisoning Hansel so she could eat him later."

"That's fairly gruesome." Sherlock started to take another bite, stopped, looked at his drumstick, grimaced, and put it down. "No wonder Mummy never told us that one."

"Yeah, and that's not all." John had to wonder why his mom told him. It was fairly awful at that. "To get away they had to stuff the witch in the oven."

"So the children burned an old woman alive after vandalizing her home." Sherlock shook his head in wonder. "You really have to wonder who the real villains of the story were."

Before John could answer, several things happened at once. First, the microwave dinged, Second, bars slid quickly from the top of the pass through into the counter below to lock fast. And, finally, a grease fire started, seemingly spontaneously, on the stove top. "Jesus." John jumped back in surprise. "Sherlock, get the hell out of there, now!"

Sherlock was spinning around. "No exits," he said. "Of course there are no exists. We have to play the game." He ran up to the bars of the pass through grabbing one on either side of his face, looking for all the world like a prisoner in an old American Western. "Tell me, John." he said. "Tell me again how they got out."

"They pushed the old witch into the oven." John looked around. "We seem to be fresh out of witches at the moment, Sherlock."

"Obviously not a real witch, then." Sherlock said, looking around the kitchen, maybe for witches or maybe for something to put out the fire, who knows. "Think, John." The fire by now had spread to the nearest counters and was licking the bottoms of the cupboards.

John was thinking. Of course he was thinking. What the bloody hell else would he be doing but thinking! Unfortunately, while part of his brain was thinking about the "not a real witch" part, the other parts were fairly preoccupied with thinking about how his best friend was going to be burned up in a diner so hot it might as well be an oven. He wasn't like Sherlock. With the fire growing bigger and spreading faster, it wasn't like he could just sweep those thoughts away to make room for the more rational…"

"Broom!" The word jumped from his mouth as the idea exploded in his head. "We need a broom!" He looked around. Surely there was one… ah, yeah, there in the corner, an old fashioned kind with the long bristles that you would ride if you were playing a game of Quidditch or a scaring little children on All Hallows Eve. He grabbed it and pushed it through the bars at Sherlock.

Sherlock took the broom but didn't move, except to give John a quizzical look. "You put it in the oven, you git." John was yelling. He wasn't sure why he was yelling but it seemed his voice demanded to yell and he was just going to have to go along for the ride. "Brooms and witches." he said, somehow assuming that explained it all. It obviously explained nothing, because Sherlock was now focusing that quizzical look on the broom. How could he not know this? "Oh for God's sake!" Yelling now seemed completely appropriate, mind and voice totally in sync. "Just do it. Shove it in there!"

Sherlock startled a bit, as if being snapped out of a daze and did as screamed at. He shoved it in."The door won't close."

Sherlock was now shouting too, but the fire had worked it's way into a blaze and the true meaning of a roaring fire was making itself known.

"What?" John really didn't want to waste time on repetition and God wasn't that ironic considering who he was talking to, but he just couldn't hear.

"I said, the door won't close, John." Sherlock was beginning to sound a bit panicked, but that was only natural as the cupboards had now gone up and the fire was spreading across the floor. "This is making it worse. Go!" Sherlock's arm was reaching through the bars and pointing. John turned to look and saw that the diner door was still open. "Go now while you still can!"

"No. God no." John came up to the bars and grabbed them and started to pull and shake them. "We are getting you out, dammit so just you…" It was then he saw the stove. "Sherlock, you didn't break it up." This time John's arm poke through pointing into the kitchen and at the stove. "You have to break up the broom to make it work!"

Sherlock looked back. "You never said to do that."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, a child of three would know that!"

"I'm not three!" Sherlock had the nerve to sound offended.

"No, you're a full grown idiot. Just do it!" It was meant to be a command, one that Sherlock would have to obey, but somehow John found himself ending with a plaintive, "Please, Sherlock, now."

For once Sherlock did as he was begged. He grabbed the broom from the stove, ignoring the flaming bristles on the end and broke it over his knee. He threw both ends into the oven and slammed the door shut. Immediately, the bars blocking the pass through rose. Sherlock jumped through the pass through and over the counter with the grace of an Olympian on the horse apparatus and together the two ran out the still open front door. They hadn't gotten more than five feet from the building when there was an explosion and it looked like the whole building was caught in flames. When they were far enough away, both men sat in the shade of a particularly large, still leafy tree, and watch the conflagration, allowing their adrenaline levels to normalize and their minds to clear.

After about ten minutes, Sherlock cleared his throat. John sat still never turning from the fire. "Brooms and witches, huh."

"Yep."

"And everyone knows this."

"Yep."

"I thought it was just the one."

John's frowned. "One what?"

"I thought it was just the one witch in the Wizard of Oz." Sherlock looked down and John narrowed his eyes as he realized his friend had a hint of a smile. "You know, the Wicked Witch who throws fireballs from her broom" Sherlock's whole mouth was trembling with the effort of not smiling. "I thought that might be your ummm hesitation, but that doesn't seem to be it."

"No." John stood and made a show of dusting off his pants despite by now it was pretty much only the dirt holding them together. "Not that." He offered a hand to Sherlock and they slowly made their way back to the steep track that led them back to the paths.

As they began the climb, this time with John in the lead, Sherlock called up. "You know, eventually we will have to take it." John didn't answer. "The yellow brick road," he tried again."It's inevitable, I think."

They finally made it to the top and after Sherlock checked his markers to ensure they hadn't been turned round they began again. John felt his shoulders lose a bit of tension as they continued their walk. Maybe, just maybe, this time…

"It's not Kansanites, is it?"


End file.
